For the past two years or so, I've done most of my running with the same group of guys. So they were a little put off when I showed up for a recent run wearing an iPod equipped with Nike Plus. "Bored with us?" said Arden. Well, it is true that he is an accountant, and Chris is a pathologist who enjoys telling us about the things he's removed from people's bodies, and in general there is a surplus of lawyers, but no: I've come to rely on their company, encouragement, and occasional hectoring to get me out the door. They have acted as pedometer ("That's got to be six miles by now, right?") and pace coach ("God, that was slow") and even entertainment, because believe it or not, some of those things that Chris has pulled out of bodies have been rather surprising. Somehow, the Nike Plus is supposed to do all of this, too.

For a simple two-piece system designed by geniuses for idiots like me to use, the Nike Plus can be temperamental. On my first run I had to spend several minutes getting the sensor in my shoe to talk with the receiver attached to my iPod. Even then, the recorded distance was always a little off--my 3.1-mile treadmill run measured 3.2 on the Plus. To correct this I calibrated the unit to a measured quarter mile. The result: It recorded the group's nine-mile run as 9.2 miles. Better, yes, but I still wouldn't use it to target artillery.

Once I plugged the iPod into my computer and iTunes uploaded my data, the Nike Plus Web site transformed me, via the magic of Flash animation, into a tall, lean, athletic avatar that smoothly pulled a graph line across the screen to describe my recent run. The slick graphics made it easy for me to review each workout, compare one run to another, find suggested maps of local runs, and, of course, buy Nike products. And the coaching component even made a video game out of my training, presenting basic plans for popular distances--5-K, 10-K, half-marathon, marathon--that I could customize by dragging around the workout bars that look like Popsicle sticks to change the schedule or distance. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of Nike Plus is how it serves as an online running community where I could engage in virtual conversations, complete virtual challenges, and presumably have virtual dry heaves.

Like anything else on the Internet, Nike Plus is probably deeply rewarding to those who commit themselves to it, but again, like so much else on the Internet, it still doesn't quite replicate something that already exists out here in the meat matrix. Arden, Chris, and the lawyers may not be particularly animated, and they smell in a way that, fortunately, digital technology cannot reproduce, yet I think I prefer even their teasing to the praise of the Nike Plus's virtual companion in my ear. Although the voice mimics the friendly young mother next door who still places well in community triathlons, I can tell she's got high standards, and she's wondering why I'm not meeting them. I was also taken aback by the celebrity cameos: I jumped a foot when Tiger Woods appeared in my headphones to congratulate me on my "fastest mile ever." Thanks, buddy.

Despite its simulated vibe, Nike Plus does make it easy for runners to connect with a larger group. I have often thought, like many others who have had a midlife rebirth as a serious runner, that in fact we are made to run and that our supposed transformation is a return to an original form. But apparently, the same primal hominid brain that's reawakened by our loping across the asphalt veld immediately starts looking around for the other members of the tribe. That's the hunger that the Nike Plus is sating, however artificially: We're not just born to run, we're born to run in packs.

Peter Sagal is a 3:20 marathoner and the host of NPR's Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me!